


Fever Dreams

by snarkymuch



Series: Broken!Verse [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Permanent Injury, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkymuch/pseuds/snarkymuch
Summary: Dean falls ill and it's up to Sam to take care of him.





	Fever Dreams

It started with a sniffle, something Dean didn't give much thought—allergies he told himself. Except it was winter and there wasn't much to be allergic to anymore. As for the tickle in his throat, that was nothing, too. The air was just dry. Was it warm in the cabin, Dean thought. He felt like he was about to break into a sweat. He stopped and checked the thermostat only to find it set to seventy. He didn't want to put the pieces together, not just because Sam needed him, but because he didn't like getting sick. It was obvious to him this cold he didn't have was from stomping around in the blizzard. He didn't blame Sam though. It wasn't his fault. Refusing to accept reality, he went to the living to check on Sam.

It had only been a few days since he found Sam, and Dean hadn't stopped hovering since. Watching Sam was Dean's new hobby. He felt like if he blinked, Sam might disappear, and his heart couldn't bear the thought of something happening to his brother again.

Dean plonked down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Sam glanced over at him and then back to the TV. He was watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Something about the choice just made Dean laugh out loud.

"Interesting choice," Dean said. "The witch is pretty hot."

Sam drew a breath and narrowed his eyes. His bitch face remained perfectly intact.

Dean put up his hands, chuckling to himself. "I get it. I'll be quiet."

A shiver passed through Dean and he tugged the blanket from the back of the couch down, pulling it around himself. He was not sick. If he kept telling himself that, it would be true—so he hoped. Another shiver racked his body and the TV flipped off. He turned to see Sam, face tight and mouth a hard line, staring at him.

"What?" Dean asked. "Stop staring at me."

Sam pushed himself to stand and took the two steps to Dean, kneeling in front of him. Dean went to open his mouth to say something, but a cool hand pressed to his forehead, catching him off guard. Why were Sam's hands so cold? They felt so good, though. Dean hadn't noticed how much his head had started to ache.

And then it happened—he sneezed. It was all it took to set Sam into action.

"Sick," Sam said, taking his hand away, Dean immediately wishing it was back. He tried putting his own hand there, but it didn't have the same effect. His head felt surprisingly hot though, but he didn't want to worry Sam. He just needed some Tylenol.

Dean moved to throw the blanket off and get up, but Sam's strong hands were there, pushing him back. A lot may have changed about Sam, but despite it all, he retained his strength.

"Stay." Sam slowly took his hand off Dean's chest.

Sighing, Dean nodded. "This isn't necessary, Sam. I'm fine."

Sam shook his head. "Sick."

Dean leaned his head back on the couch. He knew Sam better than anyone, and as an authority on all things Sam, he knew this was not a battle he was going to win. Besides, truth be told, he felt horrible. His body was bouncing between hot and cold, his sinuses ached, his head was beginning to throb, it was all just becoming too much. He could use some rest.

"Yeah, maybe a little sick. It's just a cold though. Nothing to worry about." Dean's words didn't seem to do much to ease the lines of worry on Sam's face. "Hey, if you want to help, my throat's kinda scratchy, could you get me a drink?"

He figured it was best to give Sam small things to do until he got back on his feet. Sam would get to feel like he was helping, and Dean would hopefully get a little rest. He closed his eyes, just wanting to rest them, but without his consent, sleep came and quickly pulled him under its hold.

Dean's limbs felt heavy when he tried to wake. He felt disoriented and struggled to open his eyes. He licked his lips. They tasted salty like sweat. He had to get up. He had to find Sam. His mind was full of all the dangers that could have befallen him. He was frantic. He tried to push himself up, but strong hands pushed him back down. He fought against them, but they were too strong. Someone was in the cabin. Dean cried out to Sam, telling him to run. His breaths came in gasps. The heavy darkness began to return, its grip too strong to fight. His last thoughts were of Sam as he faded back off to sleep.

The next thing he knew he was looking at five-year-old Sammy. He looked happy again. He was standing at the end of the dock on the lake they'd visited with Dad growing up. Dean smiled as Sam waved at him, but something wasn't right. The sky began to turn dark and Sam looked sick. He turned and let himself fall back into the water, disappearing beneath the waves. Dean ran for him, diving into the water. The water was so cold it sucked the breath from him. He had to find Sammy though. He was drowning. He tried to open his eyes. He tried to call out. He couldn't seem to make his body work. He could hear Sam's voice calling his name and tried to follow the sound. For just a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of Sam but before Dean could reach out to him, the nothingness pulled him back away.

The feeling of the rough old afghan scratched against Dean's bare chest as he began to stir. His muscles felt stiff and sore. He blinked and looked around, his mind trying to make sense of what had happened, vague ghosts of dreams passing through his mind. Sammy! Terror spread through Dean. He remembered the hands holding him. He remembered fighting to get to Sam, telling him to run. He threw the blanket from himself and jumped to his feet. The room spun. It was then that Dean noticed he was only in his boxers.

"De?" came Sam's confused voice from the doorway. He looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes.

"Sammy, you're okay." It wasn't a question. "What happen—" The room started to spin, and he stumbled, cutting off his own question.

Sam ran to his side, arms going around him, guiding him back to sit on the couch.

"Rest," Sam said. "It's okay, De. I take care of you."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked rubbing his brow. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck.

"Your sick," Sam said seriously.

Dean tried to make sense of what he could remember. Had he really been that sick? He tried to wrap his head around it. Sam had taken care of him. The dreams all started to make sense. There was no one in the house. It had to have been Sam he fought against, but what about the water? The water had felt so real. Could Sam have put him in the bath to cool him? He couldn't have known. He tried to dismiss the idea, but when he looked up at Sam, he saw a glimmer of knowing in his brother's eye.

Sam smiled. "It's okay, De. I can take care of you, too."


End file.
